


the coming back from

by chartreuser



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Closure, Communication, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Post 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: Sasha draws the curtains.





	the coming back from

 

 

 

Sasha goes home to his five dogs. He locks the gate, draws the curtains shut—it’s almost ceremonious. In the same way that Kuzya goes home to his family, Andre and Tom speculating what to do with the absence of hockey, the whole team scattered—packing or moving or hugging their bright-eyed babies. Sasha doesn’t want to look at selfies, wants to let the captaincy rest—so he shuts his phone off and retreats to his sofa, his bed. It’s a big house for one man and five dogs, with plenty to do. No one would fault him for it, least of all Nicky. But it’s better this way. He can’t hear anything from the outside—just the five of them and him, the dimmed house, his books. They’ll distract him for now, if that’s what he wants. But he’s been doing the same thing for years. He doesn’t want to do it again.

 

 

 

 

“We’ll say you didn’t respond to any calls, because one of your dogs ate your phone,” says Nicky. It’s the first thing he does, after unlocking Sasha’s front doors with his keys. For a while Sasha thinks about leaving him in the foyer, to tilt his head and run through the senses. It keeps Nicky grounded, makes sure that there’s something for him to latch onto, so he doesn’t float away. His lips part a little, and Nicky blinks hard, but he’s done, exhaling deeply. He’s always so efficient about it, Sasha thinks. “Or that we threw it down a building, who cares.”

“You shouldn’t be making up excuses for me,” Sasha says. He’s glad to see Nicky, but he’s tired, already. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Nicky stares at him. Sasha wants to flinch away from his attention, uncharacteristically—typically, he craves it, in the way that Sasha can’t remember but ought to, really, with how often this want has kept him company. The nature of Nicky’s abilities keep Sasha in competition with everything else in the world for his attention. It’s always difficult, with how crowded the whole of anything can be. Everybody deserves to be looked at, these days. Ladies with their delicate dresses, the suburban dogs dyed pink, the straightened streets. The effort of everything. Sasha doesn’t know what Nicky does to overcome it; how he doesn’t get lost.

“Sasha,” Nicky says. His cheeks are flushed pink, his fingers curling over the coldness of his keys. He hates the heat, but it’s a good look on him.

“What?” Sasha asks, but Nicky doesn’t respond, and he turns to make his way back to the sofa. His dogs are still crowded up at the foot of it, blinking sleepily up at him. There’s a perfectly sized emptiness for him to fit into, but he makes space for Nicky anyway. But he doesn’t sit down, running his palm against Sasha’s cheek. He still doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll go make lunch for us,” Nicky says, finally, and kisses him on the forehead. He doesn’t check to see if Sasha wants anything. All five of them follow Nicky into the kitchen. Sasha watches him leave, the tightness in his shoulders as he makes his way out of the living room. Then he watches the ceiling, at the blank sterility of it—Nicky hates dust, even if he denies it, and Sasha sends in the cleaners despite not having to. Sasha’s squinting his eyes at the corners, trying to see what Nicky does when he comes back. He has two plates of—something; Sasha can’t be bothered to check.

He puts the plates down on the coffee table. “I shut off my phone, too,” Nicky says.

 

 

 

 

Sasha sits up, later, an arm slung around Nicky. It’s quiet in the house, and Nicky’s focus is lost, but his breathing is even. Sasha watches him as he polishes the food off his plate, and then off Nicky’s, whose food is requisitely bland in comparison.

“What happened,” Sasha asks. He can feel it when Nicky’s attention pulls back to Sasha, the way his deep, distorted breath comes back to his body. “What happened? What happened _again_?”

Nicky says, “I don’t know.”

“We never do,” says Sasha.

“Well—” Nicky untenses, collapses into Sasha’s hold.

“Yes,” Sasha says, in agreement. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Nicky says again.

Sasha slides his hand under Nicky’s—an out, if he wanted it, something to distract him from the conversation. Nicky doesn’t take it. He pushes Sasha’s hand away, but he curls his fingers over Sasha’s for a brief instant before he lets go again. “We’ll have to wait it out,” Nicky says. “Time helps.”

Sasha exhales. He shuts his eyes. “It must,” he says.

“It has to,” says Nicky.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. For a sentinel, Nicky is not as sensitive with time as he’s supposed to be. But waiting is in itself comforting, Sasha thinks. Knowing that some things will come to you eventually.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky apologises. “For losing track again.”

“Why,” Sasha says. “You never have to apologise to me. We’ve already said all of them, haven’t we?”

He wonders what Nicky sees. What made him leave. The memory of the cameras, crowding them in? Having the answers pried out of their mouths, having to proffer the pain with both hands?

“I guess we have,” Nicky says. “But between us…”

Sasha pauses. “You want me to apologise?”

“No,” Nicky rushes out. “No, never.”

“I suppose there are things—”

“No,” Nicky says.

“I never learned how to apologise,” Sasha tells him, even if Nicky knows this already. He’s prone to forgetting things. There is always too much to remember.

Sasha thinks about whether Nicky would ever happen to forget him—in the way schoolboys forget their syllabuses after an examination, clumsy with the want for brighter, fresher information. Something fun. Less sobering. Sasha thinks he must have been like that once, too, before he grew up, and started to dread the world. Everyone must have had wisps of this feeling. But he can’t begin to imagine it. Doesn’t want to. Why wish for some place you know you cannot go back to?

“You hate apologising,” says Nicky, finally. “It hurts you.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“No,” Nicky says, and it feels as if Sasha is the forgetting one, now—they must have had—they’ve had this conversation before. But he can’t remember. Every conversation with Nicky always blends into a mess of forgiveness and acceptance. It’s confusing. Sasha cannot wrap his head around it, how much tolerance you can offer to someone like him. “What’s good for you can still hurt you, anyway.”

 

 

 

 

“You keep bringing me things,” Nicky says. He has one of those classics in his lap, hardbound, the letters worn off at the spine. A mug in his right hand. He’s glassy-eyed. The shadows on his face are diffused, and Sasha thinks about them sharp, under the direct sun—if only they’d gone out. But Sasha doesn’t think he can stomach it, the flinching and the squinting into the light, where everything’s as clear as it should be, at this time of the day. Nicky would be able to see everything. Nicky would be able to see more than this.

Sasha pauses the film they’re watching, some feel-good made-for-TV American movie. He says, “I thought you’d be bored. Keeping me company can be boring.”

Out of all his senses, Nicky likes to touch things the most—he always has his hands on something, but it never looks deliberate. It always seemed like he never thought about anything he puts his hands on. That he didn’t have to. But how was that possible? To hold something and never think about it, to have the responsibility of knowing almost everything about what you touch. “I’m not bored,” Nicky says. He leans forward to put the empty mug back onto the table. “If you are,” he says, his face unchanging, but his body going still, “We could go out.”

“Maybe not,” Sasha says. He presses play. “If there’s anything you need to do—”

Nicky’s still looking at him. What is he focusing on? The crooked collar of Sasha’s shirt? The dogs wheezing in their sleep? The missing dust from the ceiling? “There’s nothing that needs doing.” He reaches for Sasha’s hands, slotting their fingers together insistently. “I’ll tell you if there is.”

Sasha turns his head back to the television. “I don’t know how to occupy you,” Sasha says. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Fix what,” Nicky asks. The sleepiness in his eyes is now gone. “What’s there to fix?”

“Me,” Sasha doesn’t say. “This.” He looks down to watch Nicky’s thumb run up the side of his palm. There is so much to fix, Sasha thinks. There is too much to fix, but no chances for the fixing.

“Whatever we’ve got,” Sasha says, at last. The movie dims. The credit starts rolling. Sasha hadn’t registered anything that’d happened—it was just background noise. “This situation. Anything.”

Nicky studies him. “That’s not very specific.”

“I don’t know how to say it,” Sasha tells him. Nicky’s hold on him tightens. “It’s hard to—”

 

 

 

 

In the darkness, Sasha’s house is barely visible. All the furniture has taken on a vague, dark shape. Nicky must still be able to make them out clearly, despite the blackout curtains. When Nicky takes the dogs out, it’s always when Sasha’s in bed, or when he’s on the sofa. He doesn’t get to see the light. He thinks it makes it better, that way, that he wouldn’t have to know what was out there. His laptops are all closed. The television keeps playing. In some way the artificial light keeps him company, too, like Nicky. He can let it reflect onto his face until he gets tired of even that. Sasha’s dead phone in his hands. He keeps turning it over. There’s no point in holding it if he’s not going to use it, he knows. He could go out—get drunk—stay in—walk the dogs—leave—but he wants none of these things. He wants to think there is good in doing none of these things, too. That there’s an easy expectation to fill just by doing nothing.

And isn’t this—the downward slope of having been—the time for that? To do nothing?

 

 

 

 

Nicky comes back with his dogs in the afternoon. Half past two, according to his watch, illuminated by that hint of light Nicky lets in when he opens the door.

“Welcome back,” Sasha says, going to his knees to pet them, giving into their slobbering over him.

“Didn’t know you’d be out of bed,” says Nicky. He does something with his face, Sasha’s sure. He just can’t see him like this, with Bertha and Chuck crowding his vision. He doesn’t know if he can face Nicky, like this, the cloying mixture of embarrassment and shame. What Nicky’s unconditionality does to him—fills him up with hot emotion until he feels the burn of it, like it’s a living thing. It’s almost nonsensical.

“I am,” Sasha tells him. The foyer feels stuffy and nearly humid. Nicky must hate it. “How was your walk?”

“Good,” says Nicky. “Your sleep?”

“Good,” Sasha replies in turn. He’s stuck at not knowing what to say again. It’s worse when Nicky obviously doesn’t mind that he’s quiet, so he grasps for something to fill the silence: “We should walk them together some time.”

“Really?” Nicky asks. He walks over to him, grasping his chin. Sasha presses a kiss against his fingers. He looks so happy—Sasha marvels at how anyone could do this to another person. Enchant them with a hint of a promise. He wonders what he has to give to keep him that way.

“Yeah,” Sasha says. “Why not?” He wants to, he realises. He wants to, but not now. Not yet. But that must mean something. It has to. It must. Things come to an end, eventually. Sometime. It’s what they say. It’s what they all dread, and hope for. This is only the stepping out, the coming back to reality. It will hurt, but he has done it before, when he’s not suffocated by all the little hurts. The mind is only as organic as the body; it has to heal, and Sasha is no stranger to pain.

Nicky bends to kiss him on the cheek. “That’d be nice,” he whispers. But he doesn’t ask for a time. He’ll let Sasha let him forget it, he’s sure.

 

 

 

 

He goes to his study when he wakes up again. He’s finished all the books on his kindle, and he’s aching for something solid now, separate from the too-warm hardness. Real paper. He sees why Nicky has the urge to grab onto everything he can reach, now, the nervousness of possession. It’s what happens with the dull sort of repetition. Hockey’s not like this, at least, not when you’re moving. Everything is still here. The grey shapes. Even the dogs are lulling. In the dark, everything is on the verge of falling asleep.

Sasha knows it’s a mistake when he opens the door, and flinches at the brightness. He’s not used to it. He doesn’t remember how many days it has been, but as his eyes adjust, he’s confronted with the exposure of his medals, trophies, signed pucks. It’s a lot of metal with a lot of light. Sasha wonders why he hadn’t remembered to draw the curtains in this room, this particular room. It feels lacking, he knows now. But he’s always known this. There’s never enough anything on display. He cannot simply crowd it out with all the books he pretends he doesn’t read.

Sasha picks a book off the shelf. He’s not—it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t bother drawing the curtains. He just leaves, but he walks into Nicky in the hallway outside. Of course.

“You were looking for me?” Sasha asks.

Nicky shrugs. He’s eyeing the study’s closed door, the unsubstantial light that peeks from the bottom. “You were breathing quickly,” he says. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sasha says. It’s not a lie.

Nicky tilts his head at him. His hand reaches for Sasha’s, and Sasha gives it to him. He’s watching him carefully. “Why are you upset?”

Sasha thinks about explaining—about the feelings that Nicky cannot feel, as good a sentinel as he is. It’s nearly indescribable. He thinks about trying to materialise it—a wave crashing over you. A hard fall. Your knee snapping into two. How do you temper anything like that? How do you swallow it back down? It’s the truth, Sasha knows. But it’s exactly that that makes him angry. Knowing what he did. Knowing what he cannot do.

“I just am,” Sasha says. “It’s what happens, sometimes.” His lungs clench in around nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even look him in the eye. He doesn’t know what Nicky’s listening for—if he can hear his heart beating too loud, or how uneven his breathing is. If Nicky has some way of finding out how heavy the weight in his chest is. It always feels like he ends up knowing all these miraculous, little things. Everything that Nicky should have no capability of knowing, even with what he is.

“I know,” Nicky says. Sasha can almost cry with the admission. But he must. He’s been there. He’s still here. He must; it’s something they’ve learned how to bear together, this failure, all their failures combined into one, the indignity of it. How it burns and scratches, how it bites. The animal out of its cage. It doesn’t leave. It sits in the corner and looms over them. It’s all that they can see. It’s all that Sasha can see. Everyone sees it too, the collapse, how Sasha never stops it from disintegrating. Nicky must have felt it crumble in his hands at the same time. The whole team has. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate it,” Sasha says. “I hate this.” He’s leaning into Nicky now, letting him support the weight of him. He’s done this before, for years—for too long. Sasha doesn’t know if anything that comes out of his mouth will be anything new, or if it’ll be the same anger rehashed into a different argument. He buries his face in the crook of Nicky’s neck, forcing his weight onto Nicky even more. “I don’t know how,” Sasha says. His voice is shaking. “I don’t know how anyone else can stomach it.” He feels the press of Nicky’s other hand on his back, how it tries to anchor him, if Sasha would let it. He doesn’t know if he can.

 

 

 

 

It’s never simple with anchors. Sasha is Nicky’s guide, but it’s more of a codependency than anything else, a push-pull that refuses to fade, even after this long. Sasha remembers what it was like to want him so badly that it seemed to eclipse even himself. Every young person couldn’t let go of what they were, at that age—what they were meant to be; a ladder you climb up that never lets you down. You’re shaped by that. Sasha remembers the pain, the blind frustration that came with having too much to ask for and too little to give. It didn’t seem like he could give Nicky anything.

 _I know you’re good for it,_ Nicky had said, twenty-two, drunk off his ass after a few shots. _I know you’re good for me._ There are old pictures in Sasha’s phone where Nicky kisses with his lips, like he means it. _I know we’re good together._ The way Sasha had his attentiveness wholly, like something you would be ashamed to doubt. Conditionless, almost naive. What do you do with that love? How do you hold it in both hands?

 

 

 

 

“Come to Russia with me,” Sasha says, even if he already knows Nicky will say yes. On their bed, Sasha’s head is in Nicky’s lap, his fingers carding through his hair. He’s telling Sasha about an argument happening in their neighbours’ house, something about where to send their children off for college. It’s a nice idea, he thinks, the concept of it, arguing on the basic agreement of love.

“Yes,” Nicky says. His eyes open, after a little while. “You know you don’t have to ask.”

“Asking is the polite thing,” Sasha says, feeling the pads of Nicky’s fingers trace over his cheek. He can barely make out his face in here, where the blackout curtains are the strongest. “I assume too much, everybody says.” He leans into Nicky’s touch. “We’ll have to avoid people there.”

“Why?”

“It’s—” Sasha stares at him. “Easier. They won’t remember what they want for you if you’re not there.”

“Who cares about what they want?”

“I want what they want too,” Sasha points out.

“Sasha,” Nicky says. “That’s not the issue.”

A long silence.

Sasha asks, “Then what is?”

“What you need,” Nicky says.

“To be better than other people,” Sasha answers. It’s a joke, but it doesn’t sound much like one, coming from his mouth.

“Why?”

“Because it’s what I want,” Sasha finishes, helplessly. “You know when you want a world you cannot have? It’s always like that. You can’t get there. It’s not there for you to take. I know that.”

Nicky’s breath hitches for a second. “Are you sure? You really want that?”

“I can’t move beyond it,” Sasha says instead. It’s what he wanted for so long. When he was younger, he’d thought of—Stanley Cups. A multitude of them, an impossible number, gold medal after gold medal after gold medal. The impossible had just meant something that had yet to be achieved. But it’s turned into a dream. So many years of longing. Too many. He’d longed for the NHL first, and then he’d longed for Nicky, and then he’d longed for everything else, but it’s this problem, it’s his problem; he doesn’t know when to stop. He doesn’t know if he can.

“Can’t you?” Nicky asks. He moves his hand away from Sasha’s face. There’s nothing to obscure his eyesight now. Nicky still knows what he looks like in the darkness, but Sasha thinks that he’s starting to get sick of not being able to see him.

“Maybe,” Sasha says. He thinks about taking the out that Nicky’s giving him, how he lowers his voice until Sasha has to strain to hear it. Everything you say in the darkness stays there, Nicky says, _human nature_. There’s a degree of intimacy to the way Nicky knows people, Sasha knows. As with any sentinel. He shudders to think about how much Nicky knows him, but he’s grateful for it, too, that Nicky doesn’t mind it, the darkness, about how much Sasha needs his indignity to stay vague, shapeless. How he’s still afraid of knowing what it looks like.

He wants to say _I can_. That moving forward is as simple as it sounds, pushing one skate in front of the other. That it’s the time to do it. It’s the time to let go. But Sasha can’t; at least not yet. Forgiving yourself takes time. He’ll take Nicky’s forgiveness for now. He hopes he’ll have it for a long time. He hopes he has it for enough time, for that possibility, for that taste of it, for how he already has it on the brink of his tongue, how it’s easy to say, _I know, Nicky, you’re right,_ _let’s move on; let’s move on_ now _._

He just has to open his mouth. It’s that easy. But he can’t, not yet.

Instead, he sits up. Makes sure he doesn’t bump into Nicky’s chin, his hand grasping for the edge of the bed. He can’t see, but Nicky’s hands guide his there, where Sasha can plant his feet firmly into the ground and stand up, to stagger to the right, to move to where the windows must be, to draw the curtains open.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the blade moving along rink   
>  says What a slapshot what a shot.   
>  You make a life, it is made of days and   
>  days, ordinary and subvocal, not busy   
>  becoming what they could be, dark furlings of   
>  tiny church feelings, mysterious, I mean,   
>  and intricate like that high-windowed light —
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> intricate and mysterious I come home. 
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> Meghan O'Rourke, _Sun In Days_


End file.
